Norwegian Sled Ride
Author's note: this story about my brother Eric and I (Paul Reinholdtsen) actually happened. I think it was the winter of 1968-69 when I convinced my brother Eric to ride a Norwegian sled with me down 31st Avenue. The winter of 1968-69 was one of the snowiest seen in Seattle. There had already been a couple of snow days earlier in the season when the second big storm hit leaving several feet of snow. Our house was in the North Beach neighborhood of Seattle in or near (depending on who you asked) Ballard, between 94th and 95th street and 31st Avenue NW. According to all the neighborhood kids, 31st was the best sledding hill in all the world. If you were brave, you could start at 93rd street, or 92nd if you were crazy and build up speed before hitting the super curve at 95th. At 95th you would veer left to miss the barrier at the bottom of the main hill, and then bank around the curve to your right and then left to finish at 96th. The first day, neighborhood kids from many blocks around converged on 31st to start the process of compacting the snow to produce a world class sledding run, occasionally giving dirty looks to cars that were foolish enough to try to navigate the road and rude enough to damage our run. Sometime around noon, after hours of compaction with boots and inner tubes and aluminum disk runs, the road was finally ready for the real deal – runs on red rider sleds. A real sled was the only way to steer and pick up enough speed to navigate the super curve. The second day of sledding, I wanted to try something that had never been done before, ride a Norwegian sled down 31st. If you haven’t seen a Norwegian sled it basically looks like a small chair with runners. Eric and I had been taking turns pushing the sled on the flat of 94th street, while the other sat in the chair. I had made one tentative run down 31st by myself, but jumped off the runners after about twenty feet and skidded to a stop. I told Eric that if he rode in the front the sled it would be more stable and we could make it down the hill. Of course, Eric pointed out the obvious “You’ll just jump off after we get going, leaving me sitting in the chair.” “I promise, I won’t jump off!” I told him with absolute conviction. “I don’t believe you, you’ll chicken out.” “No I won’t. Cross my heart.” “You can’t even stay on with just you.” “I need you to keep it stable.” “I am not going.” “Please.” “No.” “Are you chicken?” “No, but you’re going to jump off.” “No I won’t – I promise, hope to die.” “No.” “Please!” “No!” I badgered Eric for a good half hour before I finally gave up as twilight came. The third snow day, I asked Eric again if he want to ride the Norwegian sled down 31st. He declined. I asked a few more times throughout the day, hoping I could convince him of my resolve to stay on, but to no avail. On the fourth snow day, the weather was warming and it looked like this day was going to be the last chance for glory. I elevated my pleas. I begged. I cajoled. I swore up and down I would not jump off. I promised to give him stuff if I did. To my utter frustration, he kept saying no. How could he be so cruel! So cowardly! Late in the afternoon as the weather continued to warm, I became desperate. I hounded him continuously. Every run he did down the hill on a conventional sled started with me asking him if he would rather try something new, something brave, something cool. I interspersed it with “I will ABSOLUTELY not jump off!” Finally, I wore him down. “Alright, I’ll do it. But you better not jump off!” Eric admonished. I pushed the Norwegian sled a quarter block up 31st from 94th. It was a bit below the normal starting point, but hey, we weren’t crazy. I pointed the sled down the hill and steadied it as Eric sat down on the chair. Eric turn around and held my eyes “You better not jump off – you promise!” “I promise”, I said, utterly convinced of my own bravery. Eric turned his head to look down the hill as I moved my feet from the snow and set them on the rails. The sled started picking up speed faster than I expected. After about twenty feet I realized how foolish I had been, how crazy this idea of going down 31st on a Norwegian sled! How could I be so stupid? Of course I did the only sensible thing – I jumped off, momentarily relieved as the sled continued on. I then realized in great horror that Eric did not know he was on his own. By some quirk, the sled continued straight down the middle of 31st, guided by providence. I ran after Eric and the sled, yelling at the top of my lungs to get off! Of course, Eric was wearing a Norwegian wool cap, the kind with the ball of yarn on top, and combined with the wind whistling past, he had no chance of hearing my pleas. I continued to run as fast as I could down the hill, yelling at Eric to jump, but the sled kept pulling away. I saw Eric heading straight for the railroad tie barrier at the bottom of the main hill and knew he was going to slam into it at full speed because of course there was no driver to steer around it. If only Eric would turn around, he would see I was not there and maybe he could save himself. The sled continued its path straight down the middle, so Eric trusted I had everything under control, when in reality I was falling further and further behind. As disaster loomed closer and closer multiple thoughts ran through my head. Would Eric realize I was not there and jump in time? If not, how badly was he going to be hurt? How much trouble was I going to be in once my parents found out I killed my brother? About forty feet from the barrier, Eric finally realized something was amiss because I should have started steering the sled to the left to make the curve, but of course the sled continued straight towards the barrier. Finally, he turned around to see me waving frantically for him to jump. But it was too late. Eric turned forward to see a manhole cover exposed through the melting snow five feet directly in front of the sled’s path and ten feet in front of the barrier. Before Eric could jump, the front of the runners snagged on the manhole grating. From my vantage point a hundred feet back, it looked like Eric had struck a land mine. He and the sled exploded into the air, with the long jagged runners behind him pitching over his head. Eric and the sled somersaulted in unison, landing in a violent heap in the packed snow piled halfway up the barrier. I gave a last burst to make it to him, but paused in dread when I saw his body convulsing on the ground entangled with the now mangled sled. As I got closer I heard a sound coming from Eric that I couldn’t quite make out. As I pulled up beside him, the sound became clear – Eric was laughing hysterically. I ran around to see his face – there were tears streaming down. I asked him if he was OK. He disengaged from the sled and stood up. Still laughing maniacally, he managed to say between convulsions “I – think – so…” We had had many memorable runs down 31st that week, but the one where I didn’t kill my brother on a Norwegian sled was the one I remember most.